


Colorful Introspection

by thotteri



Category: Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bad Writing, Character Study, Crying, Drabble, I'm Bad At Summaries, Introspection, M/M, My First Spideypool Fic, One Shot, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Self-Hatred, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 05:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18004622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thotteri/pseuds/thotteri
Summary: Deadpool hates himself, but guess who his soulmate is. Also, em dashes





	Colorful Introspection

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [einfühlung](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13773999) by [thishazeleyeddemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishazeleyeddemon/pseuds/thishazeleyeddemon). 



Deadpool is a bad person. He is a mentally unstable murderer. Everybody knows that.

And he's a special kind of bad: not the kind that seeks world domination or a fascist regime in the name of total unity; not the kind that tortures others for the thrill of it, but simply the kind that does bad with little morality behind it. Officially, Deadpool only kills bad people. He'll never accept a job where his target is obviously harmless. Yet, at the same time, he doesn't go the extra mile to make sure his targets are truly guilty of moral crimes. He has—many, many times—been duped into slaughtering good people. And at the end of the day, it's just more blood on his blade for Deadpool. He doesn't take anything seriously. Can't open his leather-veiled mouth without spouting some dumb innuendo. He remembers comrades who died at his side during war; people he loved dearly, who could never come to understand how much he needed them. But instead of telling them this, Deadpool would tell a joke, watch them either cry or laugh or bitterly do both before fading to the afterlife. And as their eyeballs stilled, Deadpool would think, _that's not what I wanted to say_. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He was incapable of articulating things that mattered to him, still is.

But he's in his 30's—far too old for Freudian excuses. Nobody asks him why he's so fucked up anymore, they just say it. _You're fucked up_. It's no surprise. He's a parody. Every other hero or mutant or morally-ambiguous, weapon-wielding shitbag has a journey. Metamorphosis from pathetic to perfect, from good to bad or bad to good. Their morals change, they gain new fears, they fall in love and show off vulnerabilities, velvet colours blooming on their skin like butterflies out of a cocoon. Deadpool does  not have any of that. He just kills and makes jokes. There's nothing about him to improve or change. He can't fall in love or receive it. There was Shiklah, but she has now run off to that prune of a blood-sucker. There's Ellie, but Deadpool knows the faint amber crescent on his clavicle is that of pure guilt and an unshakeable paternal instinct. Once Ellie ages and realises the sort of scum her father is, the mark will completely fade and their fragments of a relationship with it.

But then there's Spider-man, aka. Peter Parker, aka. a man who Deadpool sent to Hell, where—apparently—the torture menu was so insane, it left Spider-man ready to bloody his hands in the name of what, heroic pride? The one thing that makes Spider-man so impossibly cool and it was almost destroyed, no thanks to Deadpool.

Something strange happens with Spider-man watches Deadpool fight. He flinches when Deadpool plunges his blade into the heart of some goon. He speaks with disappointment when Deadpool screws up. It's strange because to be disappointed, you have to have expectations and Spider-man should already know that Deadpool is a bad person. How can he expect Deadpool to _not_ violently murder? Deadpool asks him this one day, when Spider-man shoots a web at the muzzle of the mercenary's gun, only a second too slow to stop the bullet that kills a raging security guard. Spider-man turns to Deadpool so suddenly, he expects he's about to be webbed up. Instead, Spider-man yanks his own mask off—something that makes Deadpool's stomach lurch as he stares into the piercing blue eyes of a man he killed twice—and acid coats his words. _Because maybe I still think you can change_.

And Deadpool, for once, he doesn't know what to say. He's not used to social responsibility. He does what he does and internalises the resultant hate from everyone else and moves on. He's a parody. He's incapable of change. Why doesn't Spider-man get that? He doesn't say any of this, because he's an idiot. Instead he says, _Well, I am planning to change out of this suit, I mean, look at all this blood and I swear to god, some of your webbing shit has slipped down my dick, I don't even know how it got there._ This is what he knows. Dumb jokes dismissive of anything anyone could ever tell him.

Spider-man growls and turns, stepping over the un-alive guard to pick up the security card they need to retrieve illegal S.H.I.E.L.D equipment (courtesy of Deadpool). He slips his mask back on and Deadpool almost misses the aquamarine blemish on under the angle of his jaw. It's enough to make his breath hitch. He walks a few feet behind Spider-man and using the metal walls around them as a mirror, lifts his own mask just a little. It's unlikely, but he needs to be sure.

 

 

Now he's face-to-face with the issue that he was once _certain_ would have him die alone. He doesn't know how or when to bring it up and Spider-man isn't stupid—he's a fool, yes, but it won't be long before he starts examining his colour mark and keeping an eye out for his partner. Or worse, he might already know, might already accept who the writers of the universe have paired him with. Would Deadpool then be a coward for failing to accept the pairing? He's scared. It's terrifying. Change has never come knocking on his door with such ferocity. How does one who has spent entire life being their worst possible self _change_? The very idea of it has him stuck under a blanket flipping a short knife between his fingers. What is change and how do you do that? Is there really any good or bad? If colour marks come and go, then are they really a sign of your Meant To BeTM or is it all one big ploy to watch grown ass men like himself turn into fucking teenagers and cry about how ultimately worthless they are?

Deadpool spends some hours or some days there in his sweat and possibly other bodily fluids. His phone rings and when he stretches to pick it up, he watches unknown numbers flash across the screen, promptly leaving voicemails. He doesn't listen to any of them.

Then _Spideyboo 💕 💞 💓 💗_ shows on the screen and he basically has a heart attack until it goes away and adds to the 312 voicemails. He takes the knife and cuts of the chunk of flesh beneath his jaw. Blood soaks into his pillow like it's his first period. Problem fucking solved.

But of course, it grows back, just as rough and grotesque as it was before. The mark is back as well, and Deadpool swears it’s brighter than before. _Fucking hell_ , he mumbles before skipping through the collection of voicemails.

A lot of them start with _Hello, is this-_ and _When I find you-_ and _Help me, please, please, help-_. Spider-man’s one is a lot quieter than the rest, beginning with a sigh.

 

_Uh, um, Hi, I guess._  He sounds so goddamn cute, Deadpool can't help but smile. _Er, Wade, I don’t know where you’re at-no, that’s dumb. Ah, um. Listen, you’ve been gone for weeks and I’m worried so, like-I dunno. Call back or swing by maybe. Also gimme back my web shooter, you asshole._

 

That gets to him stop sulking because how can he when Spidey’s worried about him? He scratches the side of his lip that’s way too wide for comfort. Smiling at a voicemail? What was he, a housewife? He finally gets out of bed, out of his terrible stink, and heads out. He doesn’t take the web shooter because apart from being a super cool gadget(and also out of web), it’s one of the few things he owns that proves all this warmth in his heart isn’t some delusion or manic episode, that it’s even more real than some dumbass color mark. He loves Spider-man. He just isn’t good enough to do it properly.

 

 

Spider-man’s home is smackdab in the middle of Queens and unsurprisingly small. The kitchen is adjoined to the parlour that’s also adjoined to a bedroom with a bed right in the centre. Does he not know that not sleeping against the walls is an invitation to ghost possessions? He’s sitting on a couch when Deadpool lets himself in.

First, he stares, blinks as though Deadpool might dissipate, then jumps to his feet. _What are you doing here?_  he asks softly. It almost feels like a poorly scripted porno, only the writers forgot to focus on the dicks instead of the diseases that plagued his mind.

_You called._  

Spider-man crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. Disappointment. It stings. _That was over a week ago_.

Deadpool opens his mouth to say a joke, but he can’t. It feels  _wrong_ to joke before an unmasked Spider-man. Before Peter Parker. So, for once, he says what he wants to say. _I got it._

Spider-man raises his eyebrows, but seems to understand when Wade raises the bottom of his mask above his chin and touches the spot at the angle of his jaw. _Take off the mask,_ he says.

Deadpool hesitates. Spider-man has, of course, seen him without the mask and he has seen Spider-man without the mask, but very rarely do they ever stand in the same room, both of them with masks off. Very rarely, as in never.

_I don’t- I can’t-_. While Deadpool struggles to speak, Spider-man approaches him. He's inches taller than Spider-man, but somehow it feels like he’s shrinking under his gaze. Deadpool doesn’t know where to look when he feels like he may very well drown if he looks into Spider-man’s eyes. He puts his thumb beneath his mask, hands shaking. His armpits are itchy. Maybe chasing this color shit was a bad idea. Maybe it really is just the writers looking for some sadistic pleasure. He doesn't even need to go as far as the writers; it could be Shiklah using some cousin deity to ruin his life. And if it isn't her, there’s a multitude of deities out to fuck with Deadpool. Maybe he should run. Maybe he should go. Maybe-

_Wade_. Spider-man says. His hands are now on Deadpool’s wrists. There’s no escaping this, no jokes to make. His finger’s slide above Deadpool’s own until both of their hands are under his mask. And then the mask is off.

 

And there they are.

 

Peter Parker and Wade Wilson.

 

There’s a rawness to it that makes the air against Wade’s face hurt. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Peter wipes his tears away. If this is porn, it’s a very fucked-up fetish, even for Wade. Peter snorts. He probably just said those thoughts out loud. Peter’s hands settle behind the nape of his neck. _Where did you go?_

And what a fucking question that is, because Wade doesn’t know the answer and all the jokes and innuendos get stuck in his throat. _I-_ It comes out too harsh, too high. He doesn’t trust himself to speak without sobbing. _I wasn’t sure. . .if. . ._

Peter closes the gap between their feet. _Wade, even if we didn’t have the marks-_

Wade’s heart jumps. He knows what Peter's going to say but this is the sort of moment where he expects the writers or whatever the fuck got off to his shitty existence to pop out and tear everything apart. This isn't his sort of story. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t-

_-I would still love you as much as I do now_.

Nothing happens. Peter does not transform into a monstrous being, doesn’t morph in a dream-tike fashion into his worst nightmare. He’s there. Wade tentatively places his thumb on Peter’s face. Neither of them disappear. He runs it over the ridge beneath Peter’s eye. Though his skin is smooth, the wrinkles enveloping his eye give away his age. He runs it down the hollow of his cheekbone, ending at the plump of his lower lip. Peter drags him forward and their lips meet. It’s definitely real because Peter tastes just like Wade had imagined it and there are so many things his mind is fucking spinning. Peter’s breath against his right cheek. Fingers running over traumatised skin. Shoulders bumping. It’s all too real to _not_ be real.

Wade pulls away, staring into Peter’s eyes. _I’m sorry,_ he mumbles.

_Sorry for what?_

He chews on the inside of his lip and closes his eyes before opening them again. He needs words, not a breakdown. His breath is shaky as he talks. _I can’t change for you, Peter._

Peter’s eyebrows twitch, knitting together. _Wade-_

_I know you can’t stop seeing the good in me and yeah, it’s probably somewhere deep down, but I can’t bring it out._

_Wade-_

_I’m layers and layers of murder and torture and I enjoy it, Peter, I-_

_Wade-_

_can’t be good and the only reason you think I can be is because you’re good! But I’m nothing like you-_

Peter snaps his fingers in front of Wade’s face, causing the latter to flinch. _Wade, don’t you see?_

_See what?_

_Our stories, they aren’t individual anymore. We’re not just Spider-man and Deadpool; we’re two halves of a whole. Us._

_But I-_

_Look._ Peter presses his palm to the spot under Wade's jaw. Then he sees it. Excitement, happiness, fear, guilt, uncertainty. Emotions that aren’t his, but at the same time, are? They make his heart flutter like he's pressed his feet into new and perfectly-fitting shoes.

_Those are mine and I have yours. Do you see it now, Wade? Whatever happens, you won't go through it alone._

 


End file.
